


Preposterous!

by alyxpoe



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, FWB, Gen, London, M/M, Multi, NaNoWriMo 2017, New York City, Sherlock messes with Lestrade (because he can), Strange messes with Stark (because he can), There will be sex, Wong is Strange's BFF and then some, men kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-02-04 13:27:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12772029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: In the beginning, the gods created all the universes and the fans were happy. A little later, some of the horny fangirls decided that crossovers were a thing. This particular fangirl has had some serious ups and downs and was talking to another fangirl about these universes and the second fangirl said, "hey...can you just see this?" And the first fangirl heard a little joyous..."ah hells yeah" in the back of her head, in the part where broken hearts live....and this little thing was born and it was a GOOD idea.[This particular story is growing slowly; it is a NaNo entry this year, but if it comes between this and the paying jobs, unfortunately I have to pick those....but do not lose heart, the second fangirl is seriously keeping me on track!}So, in the meantime, grab your favorite beverage of choice and let's go visit the doctor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Just a quick note, if you please, Stephen Strange is known for a plethora of unique 'tastes' in the comics. (No you don't really want to know how many I've read. Let's say "a lot.") (But not as many as there are Sherlock stories!)(Yet!) Anyway, as we are all comfortable with the food metaphor as a stand in for sex.....well, eventually it will make sense. Till then, happy reading. Also, in this story, Moriarty never happened.

“I cannot THINK like this!” 

Sherlock Holmes opens his fingers and almost casually drops the stack of loose papers in his hand to the floor where they land in a soon to be ignored heap. Some of the photographs paper-clipped into the mess shake out and the eyes of the people stare accusingly at the man who is supposed to be helping them. He gracefully steps down from the coffee table, bare feet carefully hover over and miss this newest pile of papers, keeping his eyes on the wall across the room so he doesn't have to see their cold expressions. Idly, he wonders why so many people try so hard to look mean and tough; the effect is certainly lost once they are shuffled into a lonely holding cell. 

He reaches up and absentmindedly tugs randomly on messy, unwashed curls as he paces in a circle in front of the sofa, using the coffee table as a step on the way, and somehow missing the pile of papers and photos on the carpet. He scratches at his scalp as he clings to one very small idea that is so ridiculous, so outrageous, so preposterous, that there is no other way to say it…it is just...unacceptable. His button-down shirt is wide open and each half of the well-made garment sways with his manic movements even as he stands still for a few seconds. 

Sherlock moves again, this time to twist himself into John's armchair. Always grumpy when his much more than friend isn't in his proximity, he's found himself to now be in an absolute funk. Of course, he would never tell John that, because John would surely make up thousands of reasons why he had to get as far away from Sherlock as possible. All that “I’m not gay” crap. 

He chews a ragged fingernail for a moment before bouncing up again to rush into the bedroom. Sherlock quickly slips on socks and shoes, buttons his shirt and grabs his coat before rushing manically down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson calls out sharply from her own flat when he lets the outside door slam, but as always, his mind is a million miles away, searching for something to occupy at least part of it so he can continue to work on the case at hand, regardless of its ridiculousness. He strides across the road to a taxi that seems to have appeared as if he'd telepathically called it.

Of course, preying on the mental stability of his favorite DI at Scotland Yard always proves an interesting way to pass the time; and today is no different because DI Greg Lestrade jumps in his seat when Sherlock slams open the door to his office. Greg frowns at the consulting detective and holds up one finger to quite him; he's on the phone and is quickly scribbling down some notes on a yellow legal pad on his desk. When he hangs up the receiver, he just greets Sherlock with silence and a blank look.

The blank look is a mask, however, because it only takes about three seconds to really see the mess in front of him. Sherlock is fiddling with Greg's name plaque, running his fingernail under the edge of the fake gold plate glued to the wooden stand. Yeah, he thinks, he's going to have to run this train off the tracks before it gets a full head of steam and does untold damage to either its engineer or the innocent public. Again.

Greg’s phone rings once more and he snatches it from its cradle, irritated at the interruption. Though neither man has said a word yet, he’s pretty sure whatever happens next is going to at least be interesting, possibly ridiculous, and most likely will end with a cheap shot at his own intelligence. And that’s all fine because it’s all for the best in the long run. Besides, everyone in London, quite possibly the Northern Hemisphere, is probably safer that way. 

As he talks on the phone with someone who claims to be calling in with a tip from a cold case from ten years ago, he keeps his eyes on Sherlock, who is now spinning his name plate like a top in the palm of one hand. Greg mumbles something about now having the person’s phone number, he’ll call them back later, slams the phone back down and snatches the name plate from Sherlock all in one movement. The thing feels different under his fingers, but he's too busy paying attention to the wild-looking creature in his office to give it a second thought.

As he settles back into his chair, Sherlock stands up, shoves his chosen chair towards the back wall and starts pacing. Greg takes a long sip of his lukewarm coffee and waits. Deciding against any further interruptions, he takes the phone off the hook then takes his mobile from his shirt pocket and silences it, too. He idly wonders if he should call Sherlock's brother, then decides to wait a little while longer. While Sherlock's looking pretty bad right now, Greg's seen him much worse off. He silently counts to ten. 

“Well?” he finally gives in and asks the seemingly crazed man pacing in circles in front of his desk. 

Sherlock only replies with an exasperated grunt. 

Greg tries again. “What simple task do you need me to do for you that you aren’t getting done because John isn’t home for a few days?”

That worked; the pacing stops. Sherlock steps up to the desk, seems to almost be ready to step up onto the desk, then appears to change his mind and stands there looking lost.

"A few days? Is that what you think?"

Greg thinks to himself that he doesn’t like that look because it brings back bad memories. Without really considering it beforehand, he offers his coffee to the consulting detective. Sherlock wrinkles his nose and gives Greg an offended look, which strikes him as absolutely hilarious, considering how ridiculous Sherlock himself looks at the moment. 

“Lestrade, I am capable of meeting my own needs.” Green eyes flash dangerously from beneath a tumble of poorly abused curls. 

Greg chuckles. “Yep,” he says before taking another sip, forgetting for a moment how nasty the stuff really is. 

Some of Sherlock’s manic energy seems to dissipate; he pulls a chair back up and sits down in it, primly crossing one leg over the other. His black trousers ride up enough to give Greg a great view of a bright purple sock. That gives him another idea.

“Let me see your other leg,” he orders calmly.

Sherlock frowns at him but does what he’s asked, slowly switching legs and showing off a perfectly orange sock. He glares at his own sock, looks back at Greg and then down again as if not comprehending. 

“Yeah,” Greg says, “what was it you were saying?” 

He silently acknowleges that it's been more than a few days, though he isn't certainly how long it's actually been. He tries to remember the last time he saw John. As he does so, a tense silence falls between them, a silence born from many years of two men being comrades in the fight for justice, the thrill of closing a case, and a friendship only one of them openly admits to having.

Sherlock opens his mouth, seems to reconsider the topic, closes it and starts again, this time in his more normal, talking-to-hear-myself talk, tone.

“I have reached a place in an ongoing case that appears to have no logical conclusion. I have turned it over, looked at it from several angles and decided that it is not as simple as yellow paint or a blue ladder. I am not asking for assistance, though I would like to possibly brainstorm with a reasonably intelligent human being for a bit. Since John is most decidedly not here,” Sherlock frowns at his socks again, “you happen to be the next best…”

Greg can’t help but interrupt him. “What about Molly? She’ll listen to you, mate?” 

For a moment, Greg cannot believe the look that passes over Sherlock’s face. He watches the other man carefully for any clue as to what it means, but it’s gone as fast as it happened. “So, basically, you’re actually stuck for a change?” he changes the subject.

Sherlock considers that for a second. “I am not ‘stuck,’ Lestrade, I am merely missing a piece of the puzzle. Either someone has intentionally misled me or left out important information or combined more than one case in their notetaking; I am not, nor have I ever been stuck.”

Greg listens but at the same time thinks that the dark circles under Sherlock’s eyes prove otherwise. “Fine, whatever. I’ll be your listening John for a few minutes.”

That seems to soothe Sherlock’s feathers and he launches right into it. 

And “it” turns out to be so convoluted and so slightly ridiculous that later Greg can only remember bits and pieces of the whole thing, and what he does recall he cannot believe he actually heard. he hopes fiercely that Sherlock hasn't gone backwards in his pharmaceutical habits. Later on, when he is having a drink at his own flat, he’ll sit back and try to make sense of words that seem to have no business coming out of the mouth of one Science-driven, hard facts only please, Sherlock Holmes. 

He is sitting on his sofa, just before midnight, one foot resting on the coffee table, two fingers of Scotch in a glass with a single piece of ice, winding down. It is only then that he can let his mind wander and bring back some of the conversation from earlier. He is starting to think that there has to be something missing from the entire case, which turns out to be a kidnapping. There seems to be huge gaps in information and he cannot make up his mind whether that information is truly missing or maybe Sherlock left some of it out of his retelling on purpose. 

He has certainly done that before, Greg thinks, however, that’s usually when he is hiding evidence or trying to keep the police out of his way for whatever grand reason he eventually admits to. Granted, most of what Sherlock talked at him about were normal things: adopted brothers, family squabbles, and so on. Getting a little deeper, Greg clearly remembers something about an adopted brother causing the death of an elder one, then something about the mother dying, and finally, the father missing. 

Greg finishes his Scotch in a quick gulp and moves towards his bedroom, turning off the light in the sitting room as he does so. He brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed, the story tumbling over and over in his mind as he tries to get an idea of who these people really are. That is one of the things Sherlock completely avoided, so Greg thinks that maybe they’re Americans. Not like it matters too much at the heart of the case, but that might make it hard for him to help with it. Greg considers himself the mirror above the bathroom basin and laughs out loud. Sherlock doesn’t want his help, he just needed a sounding board. Upon his agreement with his own reflection, he nods and heads to bed. 

Only after a few minutes of squishing pillows and arranging blankets just so does Greg once again let his mind travel back to those words that he cannot swear actually came out of Sherlock’s mouth as he falls into a troubled sleep: “mystic arts,” “alien beings,” and the most unusual, “I am going to New York City alone.”


	2. Chapter 2

On the ground level floor of the Wakanda Consulate, Everett Ross stares at his reflection in the window as he waits for the meeting going on in the room behind him to end. Voices that were raised in irritation a few moments ago have settled into a more appropriate hush. Though he cannot hear specific words, he listens to the rise and fall of the noise in case he may be needed. In between that he stares out at the New York City darkness and adjusts his khaki tie several times. When he hears the dull click of the door being opened behind him he quickly brushes a stray lock of hair that has fallen over his forehead back where it belongs. He takes a quick look one last time before turning to greet the Prince of Wakanda. 

“Good evening, your highness.” Ross shakes the taller man’s hand.  


“Hello, Mr. Ross, it is good to see you this fine evening.” T'Challa says, his deep voice only slightly strained from the long meeting. 

“Good, sir. I have a cab waiting for you if you are ready to return to your hotel?” Everett leaves the question politely hanging in the air between them. Though they have formed a fast friendship, they are both aware of the need to stand on proper etiquette. 

“Actually, I’d like to grab a bite first, Mr. Ross.” 

“What would interest you, your highness?” Everett asks. 

“I’ve heard all about New York style pizza, so I think I’ll have that.” T'Challa chuckles as they step out into the crisp night. 

“Alright,” Everett agrees as the two men slide into the back seat of a glossy black private cab. A divider slides up between the driver and his passengers as they pull out into the street. 

T'Challa leans back against the seat and closes his eyes for a few seconds before speaking. “Did you learn anything new, Everett, my friend?”

Everett shakes his head, picks a piece of lint from his gray jacket sleeve. “No, I have no more facts that we had a few days ago. The FBI and the CIA have traced…” here Everett pauses, taps at the glass between them and the driver as if to be sure it is soundproof, even so he chooses not to say the name, “…him to New York, but since then his trail has gone cold.”

T’Challa frowns at his friend and shakes his head. “I do not understand this.” He closes his eyes again and folds his hands in his lap. After a few seconds’ silence, he announces, “I need to see Stark. You can get me there, correct?”

“Yes, your highness, I can. Would you still like pizza? We can stop on the way?” Everett taps the divider glass again and gives directions to the driver when T’Challa agrees. The driver nods and Everett rests back against the seat. 

For a little while there is silence in the cab as each man considers his own thoughts. T’Challa is quiet, as comfortable in the back of a cab as he is on the back of a horse. He studies his friend’s face for a moment before speaking, each word carefully thought out. 

“You are missing him tonight?” Dark brown eyes flash with the passing traffic as he turns to face Everett.

Everett tightens his mouth, seems about to speak and changes his mind, instead only nodding sharply. 

“Ah, I understand being separated from your heart.” T’Challa smiles and turns to look out the window. 

Everett, a bit unsure, almost wants to talk about it but he really, really would rather not. His life is complicated enough without explaining how he literally straddles two continents and how his work lately has left little time for relaxation and relationships.

He is glad when they finally pull up in front of one of the best pizza parlors in the city. Outside the place looks small, but inside it smells like heaven. Most of the kitchen is taken up by a massive brick fire oven that is so clean the stone shines. Everett has been impressed with the place since he discovered it the first time he came to the city. He orders what they agreed on in the cab, then adds two more extra-large pies for Tony. 

Fifteen minutes later, four boxed pizzas in his arms, Everett is ushered into Avenger’s Tower, T’Challa walking a few steps behind him. They ride the lift to the penthouse and soon find themselves waiting in front of a shiny white door. Tony himself opens it, grabs the first pizza box of the top and waves them into a brightly lit kitchen. He tosses the now opened box of pizza onto a table cluttered with papers and steps behind the counter. The pie bounces like its been injected with some of Stark's energy, but it stays in the box. 

“Drinks, boys?” he asks, completely refusing to stand on ceremony. 

Everett asks for a beer; T’Challa accepts a glass of Zinfandel. The three men soon relax around the dining table and it doesn’t take long for them to polish off the pies. 

In typical Stark fashion, as soon as he tosses down his napkin, he asks point blank, “They’ve lost him?”

Everett nods. T’Challa states, “I have heard the best people America can provide are looking for him, so I do not understand how he has disappeared in such a fashion.”

Tony grins and scratches at his goatee. “No, they aren’t.” He picks up and chomps the hard end of a piece of crust. 

“I do not understand.”

“None of the Avengers are working on this problem,” he states, chewing.

On the opposite side of the cluttered table from Tony, Everett frowns, tightens his fist against his thigh and says, “That’s because the Avengers no longer exist, right Tony?”

Tony laughs at Everett’s tight voice, as always indirectly answering questions about the superheroes. “Well, they’re kind of spread out right now, but there’s a bit of a rumor in the grapevine that there’s some sort of consultant coming into town to look into it. Someone Strange has discovered.”

T’Challa considers this. “I do not see how one man is going to be able to do what your team has been unable to accomplish, Stark.” 

Tony drains the glass of rum and cola in front of him. Everett notices that he neither admits to nor denies that he’s been involved with anything other than tinkering in his workshop. The clink of the remaining ice cubes seems incredibly loud in the quiet kitchen; as loud as any unanswered question is found to be. For once he seems to be thinking over an answer. 

“To be honest, I don’t either, but you know how Strange is when he’s got a bug up his butt. Besides, it’s his turn to show us what he can do here in the real world. I don’t know anything else tonight except for a name.” He rattles the ice in the cup, the shiny gold watch on his wrist artistically catching the low light from over their heads. 

“Look, why don’t you two crash here tonight and tomorrow we’ll take a stroll down to Bleecker Street and see what kind of voodoo Strange is cooking up?”

T’Challa agrees immediately, it is not only a chance to find out more but also a chance to be away from all his babysitters for a little while. Everett, however, is feeling more on edge. He’s got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach and as much as he doesn’t want to, he’s got to ask. He suddenly feels like the floor is going to open beneath his feet and swallow him any second. 

“Tony, what’s the name you’ve got?” he asks, trying to sound reasonably curious and not terrified.

Tony looks up from the schematic he’s produced seemingly from nowhere. “Holmes,” he says before turning back to the drawing.

Everett feels all the blood drain from his face. T’Challa eyes him warily, tilting his head to one side in a rather feline manner. “Are you alright, my friend?”

Everett shakes his head, completely ignoring the question. “I need to wash up. Tony?”

Tony waves his hand gracefully without looking up. A short robot scoots into the room on small wheels. “Right this way, sir,” it says to Everett, who looks incredibly relieved to say nothing else.

As soon as Everett is out of the room, T’Challa turns to Tony and inquires, “What was that all about?”

Tony looks up from his drawing and laughs. “I have no idea, but I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to be hella fun!”


	3. Chapter 3

The respectable-looking three-story brownstone on Bleecker Street seems no different at 7AM than the other houses around it. Unless an onlooker understood the Victorian’s storied history, they would never guess that this house is the seventh to be built on the same spot since the state of New York was nothing more than a wild and dark forest. It is a unique structure, Wong considers as he climbs the front stairs carefully, balancing a paper grocery bag in each hand as he goes. He knows that the steps have been known to do whatever they desire a time or two in the past and he isn’t really interested in going through any of that right now.

With a nod of his head, the front door opens welcomingly. Any passers-by would think that someone saw the man through the window and graciously opened the door for him; instead, however, it was just the house itself welcoming him home. He passes into the sacred space, his soft-soled shoes making no sound against the plush carpeting, nor the wooden floor, or the tile in the kitchen. Wong places the bags on the shining chrome counter and unloads them, organizing fresh produce and a dozen farm fresh eggs. He has a feeling that there is going to be more than he and Stephen this morning, so he is well prepared. 

After unpacking the produce, which includes vibrant yellow onions, bright red apples, and a net bag of delectable oranges, he crosses the kitchen and opens a set of highly polished chrome doors. Inside this warming closet, two fresh loaves of bread have raised and are ready to bake. Wong smiles to himself a little as he works, closing the oven door with a satisfied expression. 

As the bread bakes, he chops and dices, then breaks and scrambles. Fresh milk from Wisconsin and freshly shredded cheese from Vermont is added to the eggs. He pours the mixture into a hot pan and deeply breathes in the aroma. Cooking, he thinks, is not so different from meditation when it is done properly. He smiles a little to himself. If cooking is meditation, then certainly eating is sex. 

Wong decides that the coming guests will be comfortable in the kitchen and promptly cleans off the center island, laying out plates and flatware. Fresh Irish butter molded into the shape of a crescent moon its place as the centerpiece. He keeps it at room temperature, so it is easier to spread on his fresh bread. Satisfied that everything is balanced, he turns back to the stove top. 

Wong dumps the scrambled eggs into a large blue and white dish; he then peels several oranges and arranges them on a light green plastic platter. He is just taking the bread out of the oven when Stephen speaks from the doorway. Wong can make out that he’s wearing a cream-colored button-necked shirt and a pair of worn out Levi’s because the man always manages to stand where the morning sun is going to introduce him in the most dramatic way. Strange leans against the doorjamb with one shoulder, arms crossed over his chest. He always seems curiously entertained by Wong’s own domesticity though they have gone through this same routine hundreds of times. 

“No music this morning, Wong?” There’s genuine humor in the doctor’s voice and Wong smiles again despite himself. Stephen snaps his fingers and some poppy dance music floods the kitchen with sound. 

“Ooh, it's something magical,  
It's in the air, it's in my blood, it's rushing on  
I don't need no reason, don't need control  
I fly so high, no ceiling, when I'm in my zone  
'Cause I got that sunshine in my pocket  
Got that good soul in my feet  
I feel that hot blood in my body when it drops  
I can't take my eyes up off it, moving so phenomenally  
Room on lock, the way we rock it, so don't stop….”  
Wong continues his cooking, now stirring a heap of cinnamon into a pan of sliced apples. He has never appreciated the weird little naked dolls with the huge eyes and tufty hair; he truly believes they are one of the weirdest things he’s ever seen in the universe. 

“No good, then?” Strange strokes his goatee. “Ah ha, I know, how about this one?” The soft strains of Chuck Mangione’s “Feels So Good” echo through the entire house. He lets it play for a few moments then switches the music to a classic rock station out of Michigan. 

Wong finally decides to speak. Eyeing the place settings, he looks to where Stephen is now levitating, cross-legged, in the doorway. Glad that the sorcerer finally learned to stay out of Wong’s way in the kitchen, he offers the other man an indulgent smile. 

“Your guests should be here soon,” Wong nods towards Stephen. “I am estimating three, but later one…no, two,” here he gives Strange an odd look, which is the very look he always gives when Stephen finds himself playing with his powers and he thinks the man needs to be reined in a bit. Generally because Wong himself is the object of the mystical games; borrowing books via mirror worlds in the library in Tibet was only the beginning. 

Stephen frowns back. “What about the consultant from London?” he queries. 

“Still no word on him, Stephen. He may have changed his mind.” Wong stands back from the island and brushes a bit of stray flour from his soft brown shirt. 

“Aren’t you joining us this morning, Wong?” Stephen has moved away from the kitchen and is in the foyer stepping into a pair of black boots. “Also, I hope you don’t mind, but I think I’ll stay less formal for the coming gathering.” He gestures at his clothing. “I sent my formal things out for cleaning on Braxis, they should be returned by this afternoon.”

“I do not mind at all, besides, without cleaning, Lich excrement would surely stink up the whole house; and no, I am not staying. I am going to go up to the hall and read the new books that came in yesterday.” In all honesty, sometimes Wong dislikes the intrusions into their space, except for a select few, like Dr. Palmer. 

“I don’t know why you buy books, my friend, you could just go and get them and return them when you’re done.” Stephen smirks around an orange slice he is popping into his mouth. 

“Unlike some, there are those of us who do not wish to drive librarians crazy, regardless of the universe they may be found in.” Wong washes his hands. “I’ll be back later.” He turns away so that Stephen doesn’t begin focusing on the fact that he can’t keep his eyes off the sorcerer’s mouth. 

Of course, Stephen knows what he’s really doing is going up to the third floor to watch out for unwelcome intruders. He hates that it is necessary, but right now there are too many loose ends for them both to let their guards down for too long. 

It isn’t long before Tony Stark and two of his companions, a Wakandan Prince named T’Challa and a man with a strange mix of identities called Everett are seated around the island, tucking into the wonderful breakfast laid out by Wong. 

As they eat and make small talk, Stephen remembers his earliest concerns about Wong staying in New York, but it didn’t take long for them to become a team. Many people assumed wrongly that Stephen was Wong’s employer. He’d been asked about having a ‘servant’ before, but they both knew that Wong was far from a servant: not only were they close friends, but he is and had been Stephen’s hands more times than they could count. 

The truth is, that being a Master Sorcerer, Wong does what he wants when he wants. Stephen had never asked him to cook, he simply took over the chore and he was more than happy to let the man do it. Having an extra pair of eyes around helped, too, especially when Stephen was unable to be on this plane or dimension. The other things they got up to, now that could either be chalked up to meeting needs, or perhaps intellectual curiosity; regardless, no one ever seemed to mind and it worked out positively for all of those involved. 

“Hey, doc, you sorta wandered away from us. Are you thinking about that gorgeous little doctor chick of yours?” Tony quips, pushing away from the island. “You know if you ever get bored with her…” He narrows his eyes at Stephen and waits for the zinger.

“Your mouth, Anthony, I swear…” Stephen glares at him. 

Tony winces in surprise as he suddenly finds himself hanging over the work top, upside down. “Well, now,” he says, “that was unexpected.”

“What would Pepper say?” The sorcerer retorts, making a motion with his fingers that sets Tony to swaying gently back and forth like a blade of grass in a soft wind. 

Laughter rumbles from T’Challa like a cougar’s purr and even Everett is forced to hide a smile behind a napkin. There are days he lives to see Tony Stark get his. The two men watch the entire drama unfold with curiosity. 

“Mister Strange, you certainly know how to lay out a welcome!” T’Challa laughs, meaning more than just the breakfast. 

Tony is now giggling and looks quite stupid. His hair is flopping everywhere and his face is turning red. 

“Just Stephen is fine, your highness, “Stephen states, keeping his eyes on Tony. “If you say you’re sorry, I’ll let you down,” he tries to sound as if admonishing Stark would accomplish something. 

“No, it’s fine, I’ll stay right here. I can’t promise that my breakfast won’t though….” Tony makes a face as if he’s going to lose everything he’d just eaten. 

Stephen considers it for a second then lets the man down, gently enough that he only thuds against the tile a little. Tony lays down on the floor and laughs his head off. Everett and T’Challa cock their eyebrows at him and turn their attention back to Stephen. 

The mood in the kitchen shifts suddenly to serious. Tony picks himself up off the floor, dusts off his backside and returns to the chair he’d been in earlier, every bit the unrepentant schoolboy.

“Tell me, then, gentlemen, who has escaped and why you are looking for them?” Stephen queries while causing the now-empty dishes and dirty flatware to float towards the sink. A series of soft thumps accompany this like drums in an orchestra. 

Tony grabs a spoon as it floats past him for no other reason than because he can. He turns it sideways and upside down and studies it as if he’s looking for strings.

Everett watches the proceedings with interest while T’Challa eyes Tony’s spoon for a moment then turns directly back to Stephen. 

“Tell us, Stephen, then, what your plans are for our missing fugitive?”

“All I can tell you is that by the end of the day, today, I will have a better idea of which direction we should head in. Tell me, gentleman, are there any unusual artefacts missing?”

“Oh lord, Stephen and his unhealthy obsession with silly trinkets.” Stark mutters as he spins the spoon on the palm of his hand. 

“It is merely a spoon, Stark, only your perception of it has changed.” T’Challa says quietly. 

Stephen debates doing something else to Tony, but time is growing short. As much as he likes guests, his patience is beginning to wear a bit thin. “It is not an unhealthy obsession, Tony, rather the knowledge that the wrong ‘trinkets’ in the hands of someone intent on murdering every human being on the face of this planet is probably a pretty bad idea. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Tony nods, “I agree, doc.”

“The last relic that was taken from Wakanda was rumored to be a sharp blade made of flint. It is supposed to be thousands of years old. I have not seen it with my own eyes, yet it was a pretty big deal when it went missing. There were articles in the newspaper and the museum put out a reward for its return.” T’Challa informs them. 

“Yes, something like that would easily hide its power from most,” Stephen nods back. 

“I don’t understand how something like that would have anything to do with what we are facing, considering something of that age would just crumble if anyone attempted to actually use it?” Everett asks, absently chewing on his thumbnail. His mind isn’t fully on the conversation. He’s trying not to think too hard about having the whole afternoon and evening to himself. Sitting alone in his office at headquarters gets lonely sometimes, but sitting alone in a hotel room is sometimes worse. At least in the office there’s paperwork. He turns back to the meeting when he notes movement out of the corner of his eye. 

Stephen stands up and leans over the island, hands flat on the cool surface. “Follow me.” He leads them up two beautiful flights of wooden stairs, bannisters polished to perfection. 

Everett notices that the wood feels comfortingly warm under his palm, almost as if the old house is welcoming him as a friend. He looks back at the others, noticing that neither Tony nor T’Challa touch the hand rail. As he climbs he thinks about how that warmth reminds of smooth skin and a delicious neck. He has to cut his thoughts off fast, though, because Stephen leads them into a huge room filled with glass display cases and shelves, books and artefacts; it is all presided over by a window set off by an unusual wooden symbol. 

“That is the Seal of the Vishanti,” Stephen gestures at the circular window, “this room is filled with artefacts of many sizes and shapes, some more powerful than the others, some of them even sentient.” He raises his hand, palm up, and a large red piece of material soars across the room to rest across his broad shoulders. “This is the Cloak of Levitation.”

T’Challa chuckles when the high collars on the cloak give a small wave on either side of Stephen’s face. 

Tony eyes it warily. “As smashing as that looks, doc, I have a certain, let’s call it worry, about sentient inanimate objects.” He holds one hand up as to stop it from coming too close to him. 

Stephen grins at him, always glad for the chance to spar. “I understand, I wouldn’t want to impede on your vision, Tony.”

Tony seems like he wants to retort, thinks better of it, and stays quiet. This room is filled with entirely too many unknowns. It’s almost like his workshop, however, the difference is that most of his designs can be powered off. Everything here seems to be giving off low level humming. He clasps his hands behind his back and makes like he’s just looking at the artefacts. 

T’Challa follows suit, moving around the room carefully, studying each object. His face is lit up with his own instincts and an intense curiosity about Strange’s collection. 

Feeling out of place, Everett choses to take a seat in a wicker chair in front of a shelf heavily laden with books. Random weird things have never held his interest long; they don’t bother him, either. In fact, he’s always been a man of practical means. Collecting junk, even if its old junk, has never been for him. He’s always moved around too much. 

 

Despite all of his thoughts, Everett is hoping that he’s out of the way enough from the other mystical objects that he’ll be able to get his most immediate worry out of his mind. This is a puzzle he needs to work on alone. Besides, surely none of them worry if someone doesn’t answer a single phone call in the space of a day. 

The voices of the other men seem to fade away into a background murmur as he works to overcome his worries. Everett leans back into the chair, which has changed into a more comfortable arm chair like the one he prefers at home. He rests the back of his head against the bookshelf and lets the voices flow over him. 

Everett’s interview for his position at the Joint Counter Terrorism Center comes to the forefront of his mind. He remembers being surrounded by strangers as he stood out on the street in front of the building then, too, some just curious onlookers, others passing by as if he did not exist. He remembers wearing clothes that fit his chosen personality, but that he never felt really fit him, regardless of the custom tailoring. There is nothing wrong with the clothes, he thinks clearly, only with what they represent. He reflects that he has told himself this same thing over and over; it has become almost a mantra. 

Everett’s mind takes him back to other places, other days. Chasing dreams that would never be and searching in someone else’s eyes for things that were only figments of his imagination. If he can just stay away a little longer he can go back, and things will be as they are meant to be. Maybe he will even find answers as he helps the greater cause. After all, he isn’t planning on making this position permanent. He’s been promised the same in a different place. Maybe then he can be thinking about settling down. He knows he will never be able to move on; but, maybe he can learn to accept things the way they are and that will be good enough. 

Somewhere beyond his tumbling, disjointed thoughts, Everett is suddenly aware of the ticking of a clock. In his mind, he opens his eyes to find himself face to face with an enormous clock. Inside himself, he knows that he should know the name of it, perhaps even seen it on some television show…it’s face is glowing blue and the Roman numerals on the face of it are twisting into new shapes…when the twelve becomes a skull, Everett hears himself scream…

He comes to, flat on his back in the floor of a three-story Victorian brownstone in New York City. He knows the where, but he cannot figure out the why, so he closes his eyes again. For some reason the old television show The Addams’ Family pops into his mind. Everett opens his eyes and it all rushes back to him. He can still hear the voices of the others talking around him, and he can clearly make out Stephen’s, though, oddly, Stephen is kneeling at his side. 

Only this version of Stephen looks a bit glowy, like he’s only a partially-formed hologram. All of his colors are muted. Everett frowns at the specter. “Yeah, not sure what is happening here.” His own voice sounds a bit drunk. He must have hit his head, because there is no way the man can be in two places at once. 

Stephen holds out his hand and when Everett reaches for it, his own slips right through. He pushes himself up to a sitting position anyway. 

“This is my astral body, Everett. You’ve missed a good deal of our discussion on powers and how they are obtained, so I felt I needed to check on you.” Stephen stands and floats across the floor to the bookshelf. He grasps the spine of a dark green leather-bound book. “Well, Mr. Ross, you chose an interesting place to catch a quick cat nap.”

Stephen snaps back into himself. Everett follows him, rubbing his palm on his thigh and straightening the sleeves of his jacket. As if he were stepping up to a pulpit, Strange opens the book and holds it out for everyone to see. As he does this, he crosses his legs and levitates in the lotus position, the cloak billowing around as if happy to be included in the proceedings. 

“As we have been discussing, gentleman, the power in ‘charged’ objects. I present to you my handwritten notes from my reading of the Book of Cagliostro. I have been through that volume several times, but that isn’t the point here. What I am showing you is that even by me copying down specific words and phrases, even in my own cryptic shorthand, was enough to send Mr. Ross here on a quick trip to memory land.”

“May I take a look?” T’Challa asks, holding out his hand. 

“No, I think maybe not. Until this moment, I didn’t even realize the volume itself carried any innate power at all. Let me put some locking spells upon it, and then I’ll happily lend it to you.” 

T’Challa nods, fully understanding. 

Everett notes that Tony is listening to everything, but he’s still standing back like a little kid afraid to touch anything. They all seem to be waiting on something to happen. When nothing changes, Everett finally asks the question that formed in his mind after he’d gotten off the floor.

“Did that book of yours read my mind, Strange?” he’s feeling oddly perturbed about this idea. He’s always thought of himself as a solid wall, only allowing others to see what he wishes them to see. 

“No, Mr. Ross, it didn’t read your mind, it merely expanded your mind into itself.” Stephen’s green eyes peer into Everett’s blue ones, his expression open. 

“That’s not much of answer.” Everett states, his hands making fists at his sides. Though he has to accept the other man’s honesty, he isn’t loving it. He is feeling weirdly savage, almost like he needs to protect something deep within himself. 

“Mr. Ross, I daresay if you even attempt to swing at me, you would seriously regret it.” Stephen closes the book and it is now floating beside him. Without taking his eyes off Everett, he makes a motion with his fingers and sends it to the very top of the bookshelf it originally came from. “I can tell you exactly what you saw, if you like, though I very much believe you’d rather keep it to yourself.”

Everett takes a deep breath and lets it out, along with his seemingly irrational anger. “No. No, let’s forget it. I’ve never been comfortable with the ‘other sciences,’ Stephen.” 

“I understand, and now I have to bid the three of you good afternoon. I’ve got some work ahead of me today. You may show yourselves out, please do not linger on the second-floor landing.” With that, Stephen drops his feet to the floor and turns back to the bookshelf. Calmly he sends out a telepathic message to the watchers in his house to assure his guests get back out to the street safely. 

After accepting their thanks and offering his gratitude for the information, Stephen allows himself a moment for some inner reflection. After a bit, he pulls a different book from the shelf, sits down in the chair, and begins to read.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, I borrowed a scene from Ragnarok. It was just too damned funny....wish I could take credit for it, but I can't.

Later that afternoon, Stephen and Wong are on opposite sides of the library, each with his head bowed over a book. This is a typical day for them, relaxing in familiar companionship outside their active minds. Stephen is resting in the same chair that Everett sat in earlier; Wong is standing beside one of the many waist-high tables in the room, his hands resting on it and his legs shoulder-width apart. He looks relatively comfortable, relaxed but ready to move if the occasion calls for it. 

Stephen has a small purple tome open in his hands; it is such a small volume that his fingers almost engulf it. Wong is perusing a huge, thick book that is open on the table in front of himself. The cream-colored pages are ruffling slowly as if a slight breeze is moving them. From somewhere inside the house, classical violin music is playing. Altogether, the friends and their reading materials are a calm picture of domesticity, a true rarity in the Sanctum Sanctorum. 

“I don’t understand how the terra wolves had ever been able to range this far East…” Stephen raises his head, his attention suddenly taken from the book. “Did you hear that?” he asks Wong. 

Wong stabs his index finger into his book to hold the page down. He cocks his head to the side slightly and agrees. “Yes, I did. Sounds like a bell,” he considers for a second, “Only, there is no doorbell here at the Sanctum Sanctorum.” 

“Hmmm,” Stephen agrees, closing his book. A little puff of smoke lazily climbs up from the pages. He studies the room at large for a moment before standing and crossing to a door that has just appeared in the wall. He opens the door, steps through and closes in behind himself.

Wong, accustomed to these types of things and equally able to do them himself, turns back to his reading. He is just beginning to wonder when Stephen’s next guest is going to arrive when the doctor steps back out into the room. 

“I knew there was a bit of a cosmic disturbance today. I found the man they’re searching for. I believe they are….” He pauses, eyes closed, one hand held up in the air. “Ah! Not far from here. Wong, should I bring them here or to the second floor?” 

“No, here should be fine. There’s still a couple Eengawori slugs loose down there. They shouldn’t live much longer, though.” Wong stands up, stretches, and yawns. “I’ll go down and see if they’ve taken the bait yet.”

“You can stay, if you like, this might prove interesting.” Stephen snaps his fingers and his cloak soars across the room from the cabinet where it hangs out when he isn’t wearing it. He’s changed from his earlier jeans and shirt to his blue Sorcerer Supreme duds now that they are freshly cleaned and pressed, thanks to the ladies at the laundry on Braxis. It now seems that he thinks of it as a uniform, and considering the guests he’s going to greet, maybe this time it may help him to be more formal. 

Standing on ceremony is a common thread throughout many planes and dimensions; it is true that some cultures put more emphasis on it than others. They all, however, recognize the rank of Sorcerer Supreme. 

“I’ll see you later, Stephen. I called a hotel for your other guest, he should be comfortable there. Also, don’t forget I am visiting family in Hong Kong tonight.” He says, continuing their conversation from earlier, before they started reading. 

Wong ties a red ribbon around the pages of the giant book and leaves it resting on the table. Now the tips of the ribbon sway gently back and forth as if the slight breeze is emanating from the book itself and not the room around it. 

“I won’t forget,” Stephen allows. 

Wong looks at him and raises an eyebrow.

Stephen laughs and winks at his good friend. “Alright, I’ll try not to forget. Enjoy your mom’s cooking.” 

Wong raises a hand as he leaves the library. Stephen waves back, looks down at his clothing as he slips on his sling ring. He opens a portal right in front of himself and invites in his guests, one of which he finds so annoying he simply forgets to stop his flight from the city to the Sanctum. He closes the portal so that anyone entering the library would see only a wall. 

Within a few moments, Stephen and one of his guests are sitting across from each other. The well-built blonde man has an openly happy expression and seems to be enjoying himself. Stephen thinks it’s because he’s getting a break from his sidekick for a little while. 

The big man looks around the place, his eyes taking in books and artifacts. Stephen notes how he seems a but uncomfortable in the grey hoody and jeans he’s wearing, almost like if he moves too fast, something is going to rip. Though of course, there might be certain times that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He shakes his head a little, reminds himself that he can’t waste too much energy on this problem and returns his attention to the man in front of him. 

“Welcome to New York, Thor Odinson.” Stephen smiles as he rests his chin on his fingertips. 

Without much preamble, Thor asks “So Earth has wizards now, huh?” Being related to one makes him a bit leery in general. He stares down at the low table between them, where a perfectly ordinary tea cup is resting on a perfectly ordinary saucer. The cup is empty. He doesn’t touch it. 

Stephen doesn’t answer, instead conjures some tea into the empty cup. “Tea?”

Thor looks a little disappointed in the severe lack of beverage choices. “I don’t drink tea.” He tilts his head to the side as if wondering what weird place he’s wandered into now. 

Thor is always uncomfortable whenever he is forced into using his brain over his brawn; this odd house filled with so many unseen mystical things and magic symbols is making him a bit nervous. Surely his brother would be more at home here. Of course, with his tendency to cause mischief, maybe it is better he’s not yet arrived. 

“What do you drink?” the doctor asks, breaking Thor’s train of thought, a slight smirk on his face. He’s more than a bit fascinated, to say the least. 

Thor frowns, seems a bit put out to have to explain; he certainly doesn’t want to seem rude to his host. “Not tea.” He shakes his head a little. 

Strange changes the neat little porcelain cup to a massive Asgardian stein. Thor’s expression says he is certainly on board with this great choice. He takes a big swig of it, smiles, and watches it refill. 

“So, I keep a watch list of individuals and beings from other realms that may be a threat to this world. Your half-brother*, Loki, is one of those beings.”

Thor is very much enjoying his massive intake of Earth ale. “Worthy inclusion,” he agrees. The brew doesn’t touch what’s made in his native world, but at least is has a decent taste. 

Stephen watches the Asgardian closely, hoping for more information. When none is forthcoming, he says, “Yeah. So, why bring him here to New York?” As much as he could see earlier, he still can’t put his finger on why the brothers are on Earth, much less in New York.

After a few seconds of silence, Thor finally seems to feel like talking. “It’s a bit of a long story. Family drama, that kind of thing.”

Stephen nods in sympathy without saying anything, still hoping for more. After all the trouble, the least the Asgardian can do is give him an interesting story. He idly wonders if this is how people feel after wasting their time with reality television: the story sounds good but is so typical as to be cliché. 

“But, we’re looking for my father.” Thor offers concisely, a man of action and few words to his core. This seemingly is enough of an explanation for him. 

Finally! 

Thor narrows his eyes at the sorcerer for a moment, tries to remember if he said Odin’s name, gives up and agrees. “Oh yes, promptly.” 

Stephen smiles. “Great. Allow me to help you.” 

Just as he stands to open the portal door he hid earlier; a man appears from the ceiling and hits the floor with a thud. 

Angry, he gets to his feet and brushes invisible dust off his suit jacket. “I’ve been falling for thirty minutes!” he bellows. 

Thor stares at Loki for a moment, then turns to Stephen, who is desperately trying to keep his cool demeanor. What he really wants to do is dance around and chant like a rotten schoolboy. Maybe even sing a few bars of that awful song by the Weather Girls from 1983.

He doesn’t allow himself to rise to the bait, however, merely asking them to follow him. Instead of gloating, he opens the portal and points inside. “Go now, but please let me know the next time you plan on arriving.” He offers both men a saucy wink that is completely wasted since they are looking directly into the portal; Loki seems completely disaffected while Thor still seems a bit untrusting. 

First Thor, then Loki, step through the portal and vanish. Loki pauses long enough to narrow his eyes the sorcerer, but wisely chooses keeps his mouth shut. One mystical butt-kicking a day is enough for now. 

Stephen closes it and turns away, satisfied with a job well done. Instead of returning to his studies, however, he heads down to the kitchen. Since Wong is gone for the night, he is going to cook up something otherworldly and he won’t have to worry about any complaints about his odd tastes.

“It’s only the odd tastes in food that Wong seems to have any issues with.” Stephen says to the room at large. Absently he considers the mind of the warrior and the mage and wonders which one will come back first. 

As soon as he opens the door to the refrigerator, Stephen is interrupted from his culinary experiments by a knock on the front door. He can hear a man’s voice outside complaining loudly to anyone who will listen that it is preposterous that no door knob can be found. Stephen smiles to himself, closes the ice box, and prepares to meet the day’s last guest and the only one he purposely invited to the brownstone today.

 

*little note: I’m sticking with the original myth whereby Loki is a son of Odin and his mother was an Ice Giant.


	5. Chapter 5

As far from London as he ever cares to be, Sherlock Holmes stands outside the three-story house on Bleecker Street, staring at the ridiculous front door. He is here because he was invited; and, since he was invited, he should be able to just walk right in. 

He’s expected, of all things, he thinks, pacing back and forth. There’s never been a lock or a door he couldn’t open. Sherlock was quite irritated to lose one of his favorite lock-picking kits at Heathrow. It was only for pure curiosity of why he was invited to New York that he didn’t bother arguing about the kit. Besides, he’s got at least four others at the flat. 

Crossing his arms, he frowns up at the house. It has now become a challenge and he’s been incredibly bored for incredibly too long to not at least try something. He fiddles with his gloves, his mind in a delicious free-fall as he tries to figure out how to get into the house.

Not once does he stop and consider that maybe this time that he may go a wee bit too far in the name of boredom. Nor does he consider all those things he thought were so ridiculous two days ago when he was searching for answers back at Baker Street. 

Some of those words come crashing into his underworked brain as he stares up at the round window on the third floor. For a brief moment it seems as if someone is looking down at him; the sunlight refracts oddly, making the figure look as if it were dipped in brilliant yellow paint. He can vaguely make out shadows where eyes and a mouth would be. 

Sherlock stands there, staring up at the strange window, playing with something in his coat pocket. As he fiddles with the unseen object, he finally must admit to himself that it doesn’t appear anyone is going to answer the door. He returns his attention to the door; then glances back up at the window and there is nothing or no one looking back at him. 

He absolutely does not consider any of this odd; maybe there is something in the attic or room up there that throws a unique shadow. Perhaps someone has a television on up there and he caught a reflection of it in the glass. 

After a while, he simply refuses to think about it anymore and walks around the house, searching for another way to get in. It seems that there are no windows on the first level at all. The ones that are on the higher floors are all completely clear of any suitable foliage for climbing. 

Sherlock frowns at this inconvenience and walks back around to the front door. He climbs the three steps and wonders if his mind is jetlagged: what was a plain brown wooden door when he left it a moment ago is now deeply stained blood red. He stands there, one hand in his hair tugging a curl at the nape of his neck, the other resting on one of the loose ends of his scarf. 

He finally decides he’s been kept waiting long enough so he marches up to the door and gives it a good thud with his knuckles. Oddly, the sound reverberates as if it were passing through a huge, but quite empty, cavern. Sherlock knows that is not possible, that the brownstone may not have much in it, but certainly someone resides here. 

He turns his head back towards the street at the loud sound of a stereo in a passing car. Turning back to the door he takes notice of a large, ornate doorbell that he seems to have missed in his irritation. He jams his finger against the bell, hard, and counts to thirty while he holds it. No answer.

Then he counts to ten as he pokes at the button. Even harder this time. When that fails to get a response, Sherlock raps the door again with the side of his gloved fist and almost falls face first through it when it opens with a dramatic creak. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes.” A somewhat amused man’s deep Vincent Price-ian voice says brightly.

It seems to Sherlock that it takes him a long time to catch his balance, almost as if everything around him has been slowed down. Once again, he writes it off as a jetlagged intelligent mind that has far too little to do the past couple of weeks. For an instant, he flashes back to Greg Lestrade’s tiny office and wonders if the DI has found most of the parts to his name plaque yet. 

Sherlock, being very much himself regardless of the ensuing craziness, shakes off the slight twinge of homesickness. He has many questions he’d like answers to, but as he is wont to do, he simply goes with the most straightforward one first. 

He regards Stephen Strange’s unique wardrobe with a mixture of barely hidden curiosity and even less barely concealed condescension. His eyes travel over the other man, sizing him up; from the shiny toes of his black boots to the white streaks in the hair on his temples. 

“I was invited here by a Mr. Strange. I assume you are here to introduce us, though I believe it is too late in the season for fancy dress.” Sherlock makes a big production of dusting himself off and misses the sly grin that passes upon the doctor’s lips at the complete and utter error in Sherlock’s thinking.

Stephen eyes his guest carefully, noting each tell. He decides to ride it out since the man so rudely pounded on his front door. As with Stark, he knows he will eventually get his chance to let him know who is really in control here. “Would you like me to grab your luggage, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock looks around then seems to be surprised to find that he doesn’t have any luggage. “No, I’m not planning on staying in New York for long.”

Stephen is a little disappointed at being unable to show his skills right off, but decides he’s going to have some fun anyway. He gestures towards the staircase and does his best to control the laughter at seeing someone working so hard at being disbelieving. The tails of the Cloak of Levitation point in the same direction; Sherlock seems blind to it. 

This is certainly a twist he wasn’t expecting, Stephen thinks to himself. The Great Detective, indeed. How can someone purport to deduce so many otherwise hidden clues when he is willfully ignoring some of the ones in front of his own face? 

“Right up the stairs, please.” 

Sherlock nods and says nothing, quickly turning away from his inspection of the furniture in the foyer and leading the way up the flight of steps as if it is he who owns the place. Stephen follows, patiently waiting on the detective to open the wrong door. He is a bit baffled, and more than a little impressed, when Sherlock never wavers and leads them right up to the third floor. 

“I assume this is where our meeting will take place.” Sherlock walks into the library, green eyes scanning every artifact, every piece of furniture, the seal over the round window, and the shelves crammed with books of every color, age, and size. 

Stephen waits, even counts backwards in his head from five. Sherlock doesn’t disappoint him. 

“You are Mr. Strange, I presume?” The detective looks up from where he is running his fingers among the spines of the books on one of the shelves. 

Stephen wants to make some smart-ass remark about it taking him long enough, but he says nothing, instead busying himself by conjuring up a tea service on the table in front of the sofa where he’d met with Thor earlier. 

Casually Sherlock he pulls a volume off a shelf and opens it in his palm. He studies the pages for a moment, closes it, then flips it so he can better look at the binding. “Human skin, is it not?” he queries without looking up, not really needing an answer to his former question. 

“It is, and yes, I am.” Stephen agrees as he takes a seat in one of the comfortable chairs. 

Just for fun, he stops time, allowing himself a few moments to study the Englishman. There’s something familiar about him, something Stephen can’t quite put his finger on, so he moves past it, for now. He takes in the other man’s bearing, the way he stands, a way in which he seems so easygoing at first glance. Further study, however, shows that Sherlock is surely trained in some form of self-protection; the way he seems to be on the alert constantly, ready to defend himself. 

The mage thinks about his own protection, his magic and the axe hanging on the wall in a mirror dimension just beyond this house. He felt it was better not to have such a powerful weapon in plain sight of a man rumored to have blown bullet holes into the walls of his own place out of sheer boredom. 

Stephen knows there are many published books about the great Sherlock Holmes, oh yes. One does not travel between dimensions without learning a thing or two; however, he has yet to finish a single one. He prefers, instead, to learn about someone in his own time. He chuckles a little at his own joke, and allows time to resume. 

“That was interesting.” Sherlock says softly before slipping the book back onto its place on the shelf. He sits down on the chair across from the doctor and waits for the usual questions. 

Stephen merely watches him. He’s dealt with Tony Stark and Steve Rogers enough times to know when a guy is just looking for someone to tell him how great he is. He rests his chin in his hands and waits. The cloak gently floats from his shoulders until it is resting next to him on the sofa, confidently mimicking Stephen’s posture. 

For a little while, the library is silent save for a clock chiming the hour downstairs somewhere. At some point before the sun sets, Wong stops by and brings greetings from his family in Hong Kong. They have a short conversation, Stephen introduces Sherlock to his friend, Wong invites him to dinner and then they are alone again. 

“Don’t open the refrigerator*?” Sherlock finally breaks the ice. 

Stephen laughs this time, glad that out of all the questions Sherlock could have asked, he stuck with that one. 

“I wish I had a photograph of the look on your face, Mr. Holmes, but yes, the unaware should stay out of my kitchen. I have a certain affinity for some rather peculiar fare, but don’t worry, Wong is quite a brilliant chef and leaves anything not from this dimension or planet out of most of his recipes.”

Sherlock settles back into the chair and crosses his legs; he will never admit that he’s a bit unsettled by that. “For what purpose was I invited here, to this rather intriguing place?”

“Intriguing, yes,” Stephen says, “yet you are denying any proof of what makes it so.” His voice is so low, it is almost a growl. Once again, he waits patiently, hoping that he chose the right man for the job. 

Sherlock is caught out. He is unaccustomed to anyone being able to read him so clearly. There’s a few chilly seconds between them as they each attempt to stare the other down. Like a protective pet, the cloak returns to Stephen’s shoulders. 

“This is preposterous.” Sherlock states. “You are ridiculous.” He gestures as Stephen. “Clothes, hair, that little beard.”

“You are preposterous.” Stephen grins back at him, finally beginning to enjoy himself, “This is ridiculous.” He raises one eyebrow and allows the cloak to point for him. “Clothes, that hair. Tell me, who are you pining for so much that you’ve let your own hygiene slip?”

Sherlock’s overly serious expression seems to be about to break, but his attention is torn from Stephen the second someone else walks into the library and somehow, the last question seems to echo from the walls. 

“I apologize for barging in, Doctor, Wong said you were here. I believe I left my…” The man’s words simply stop on an inhaled breath. “What are you doing here?” 

Everett Ross is standing in the doorway, staring at Sherlock the way a man looks at a ghost. All the blood seems have run out of his face; his cheeks are pale, blue eyes wide, lips parched and mouth slightly open.

Sherlock, unknown to himself, is staring at Everett the way a drowning man surely looks at a life preserver when he’s been out at sea so long he’s forgotten that there is more to the world than just water. 

Stephen just watches the entire thing unfold, curious as to how these men know each other. He knows that Holmes often had a companion, a certain Dr. Watson, though he wasn’t aware that they were much more than friends until this moment. It doesn’t take him long, however, to realize that neither one is aware of how the other feels. 

This is certainly going to prove to be more interesting than he had intended. He mentally prepares all of the Sanctum Sanctorum’s protective charms because Everett Ross is looking positively dangerous.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*one other small change: I want Strange to have his unique tastes for the sake of the tastes, not for the balancing of the magic.


	6. Chapter 6

Stephen casually makes a motion with his fingers. It is such a simple movement, almost miming typing on a keyboard; most people would not even notice it. Out of the corner of his eye, however, Sherlock homes in on it, turning his attention away from Everett.  
In the same instant, Everett spreads his legs and tightens both of his hands into fists. Before he can take another breath, everything goes completely still. The library falls silent, the only sound now is Strange’s breathing. As he levitates from his seat, crossing his legs into a loose lotus position, booted feet tucked beneath his calves, he takes in the two men who are frozen to their respective spots.

Sherlock’s head is still turned towards Stephen’s chair, but his eyes are following the sorcerer’s movement. Stephen is glad that they aren’t completely under, he prefers they hear what he has to say. Everett, on the other hand, is fighting the unspoken spell and his entire body is trembling with the effort he is making to break it. His mouth is still open, lips and teeth and tongue in place to force out the scathing remark he was about to make. Stephen can almost feel the sting of the words himself. He shakes his head slowly, side to side. 

Everett Ross has seen many things since coming to New York and he knows that there are some fights he cannot win. He is so very not happy about being forced into this position, both by the Sorcerer Supreme and Sherlock Holmes just showing up for no good reason. He’s had a good thing going here but the secret is out. They’ll never let him stay now. 

“Relax, Everett. Or John, I presume?” Stephen says calmly as he floats towards the doorway. He smiles when the other man’s eyes seem to open a bit wider, confirming Stephen’s suspicions. He hovers just out of John’s reach, just in case he didn’t make the spell quite strong enough. “You will not be injured, but you will exhaust yourself if you keep fighting.”

John’s eyes narrow angrily, though some of the fight seems to die when he accepts Stephen’s words. Stephen levitates a little closer to him then drops his feet to the floor; the soles of his boots make a soft whump sound. He tilts his face down towards John’s, forcing the shorter man to look at only him; his body is fully between John and Sherlock now, their attention is fully on him. 

“I am going to send the two of you somewhere, I haven’t really decided yet,” Stephen watches the acceptance come into John’s eyes. He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. Turning away from John, he raises a hand into the air as if conducting an orchestra. “The two of you need to talk, it seems, and I believe I can be of service to you for a little while.” He strides towards Sherlock, locks eyes with him and nods once as he passes him to grab what seems to be a random book from the shelf.  
Stephen flips through the book as he paces, making a full circuit of the room. Much to his amusement, John and Sherlock look at only him and not each other. 

“I’ve got to send you somewhere where you won’t be interrupted, it’s only the two of you and neither of you can just walk away.” He mutters under his breath for a few seconds, enjoying the on-stage feel of the moment. “Oh, I know…” he seems about to do something but changes his mind. He crosses the room again; this time he drops back down into his chair and makes a production about flipping through pages. 

“No, can’t send you there, I’m trying to keep you out of trouble. Not there, either, the sea gods would have my head on a pike, what about here?” He points down at the page and looks up. “Not too hot, not too cold, you’ll be alone, the two of you, and it will be like a vacation!” Stephen opens a portal in the middle of the room and points towards it. Upon standing, he levitates John and Sherlock from their places towards the portal. Sherlock’s eyes are filled with curiosity, John’s are burning with anger. Stephen taps the amulet hanging around his neck. 

“Time control, remember?” he laughs then as he sends the men through the portal. “Bon voyage, boys! Come back and visit!”

Just like that, Stephen is alone. He closes the portal and his eyes, psychically reaching out to the Protectors. Everything is as calm as can be expected within the house. Idly, he wonders what he’s going to do for the rest of the evening. Admitting to himself that the holding spell has drained a little of his energy off, he decides to change back into street clothes. The rumble in his stomach reminds him that its been awhile since he fed himself, so that will be the next step.

Stephen is expertly stirring something in a huge wok on the stove when Wong comes in. The air changes in the room and Stephen turns away from his cooking to watch his friend take a seat at the island. Stephen grins, his face lit up with the expression of one who has had a good day. 

“You aren’t quite finished yet.” Wong states. 

Stephen chuckles. “Oh well, yeah, there’s still plans for the evening, I believe.” He turns away from the stove, the long wooden spoon in his right hand seemingly forgotten. 

Wong grins back, rests both hands on the island top. “That isn’t what I mean. Your supper seems unwilling to hang around.” He nods towards the wok. 

“Oh shit!” Stephen laughs. He smacks the pink tentacle now making its way across the stovetop with the wooden spoon. The thing is moving like some sort of grotesque inch worm. “These things never go quietly," he mutters.

“You just giggled.” Wong says, deadpan. 

Stephen laughs again as he begins stirring the stuff inside the wok faster. He turns the flame up under the burner a little, suddenly feeling ravenous. “It’s been a good day, I think.”

“Well, now, where did you send them?” Wong asks, watching Stephen’s every movement, glad that he long ago adjusted to the odd smell of some of the things Stephen enjoys eating. Only the Ancient One was prone to such inter-dimensional delicacies. Wong understands well that some types of magic are harder on the body than others. All sorcerers will eventually rest up, but Stephen has always been notoriously impatient and discovered by sampling fare from many dimensions that his strength can be replenished that much more quickly.

A comfortable silence falls between them as Stephen finishes cooking. Wong studies him closely, observing the way the soft grey t-shirt he’s wearing accents his broad shoulders. Clothing always seems to rest on Stephen Strange, as if it is an illusion. He’s also wearing loose-fitting pants instead of jeans, and he is barefoot. 

“Are we sparring after dinner?” 

Stephen plates his meal, gestures towards the wok. “We could, if you like.”

Wong shakes his head and conjures up a bowl of soup. He takes a deep breath as the bowl settles to the place in front of him, steaming. He accepts the chopsticks Stephen offers. “Thank you.”

Stephen smiles. He is standing with his back to the stove, shoveling down his meal. For a few minutes the two men concentrate on eating. When he finishes, Stephen sets his plate on the counter top then washes his hands in the sink with a bar of soap that rests on the sideboard for this purpose. He takes his time with this, an acknowledgement of past life. 

Wong catches himself staring at Stephen’s hands. “I will never be happy for a being to suffer so.” He pushes his chair back and stands beside his friend. Reaching out, he takes the yellow bar of soap from Stephen and gently begins washing his hands for him. Expertly he cleans one finger at a time. Stephen stands still, saying nothing, obviously enjoying the touch. He turns his hands over so Wong can wash his palms, too. 

The task completed, Wong turns off the water and hands Stephen a soft white towel from the drawer. 

Stephen dries his hands, his full attention now on Wong. He angles his head a little and Wong moves in closer, tilting his face upward. Both men watch each other for a heartbeat and when their lips touch, the whole house seems to sigh around them.


End file.
